


Behind Crystalline Irises

by thalialunacy



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-14
Updated: 2010-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-26 15:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thalialunacy/pseuds/thalialunacy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Kirk sees colors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind Crystalline Irises

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Wall sex.  
> Summary: Jim Kirk thinks in colors.  
> Disclaimer: I don't mean any harm, nor to profit.  
> Notes/Warnings: Pinch hit for km_anthology. Bunny courtesy of camesawconquerd. Thank you to maypirate, starsfell and pslasher for the read-thrus. Title from 'Carbon' by Tori Amos.

The flowers on the sideboard are less bright than they were yesterday, Kirk notes as he walks to his desk and switches PADDs. He walks over to the bouquet, picked a few days prior on a strangely bucolic away mission, and decides it's more of a goldenrod than a corn. The gunmetal of the sideboard shines despite its wilting occupant, and Jim is torn as to whether he's pulled more by the melancholy or pluck that fall from the obvious metaphor.

He doesn't have a chance to decide, either, because there's a man striding into his office. A blue-clad, red-cloud-storming CMO, to be precise.

Jim taps the file shut, then lets his hands fall to his sides as he watches Bones approach until they're mere inches apart.

See— Some would say Jim Kirk doesn't learn his lesson. Jim Kirk would say he only learns the lessons that need learning. Exhibit A: When the CMO comes into the room with a face full of carmine intent and locks the door behind him, it is in Jim's best interest to shut up and let him get his rant on, until the red seeps away and leaves him with merely his ubiquitous and slightly olive green halo of crankiness.

This time he doesn't even lock the door, Jim notes, just as he notes the rosy brown of McCoy's lips is broken by a bloom of color, indicating McCoy's journey to the captain's ready room was made with his teeth on his lower lip.

Kirk wants to bite it, too. See if it turns any other colors. But he gets distracted when a light salmon tongue appears as McCoy opens his mouth to speak—then shuts it again.

And Jim will never know what causes it, if it's the melancholy or the pluck or just the alignment of the several strange planets they're near, but on this day, McCoy's mouth closes without saying a word.

Right over Jim's.

The PADD reacts with a happy whirr when Kirk's hand clenches over it reflexively, but he's too busy drowning in red, in the singing jade of McCoy's kiss, to care. He drops it, in fact, immediately discounting its sharp crack of protest and curling his hand in the blue, blue fabric of McCoy. His other hand finds itself surrounded by the dark chocolate of McCoy's hair and then his back is meeting the cold-colored wall.

Only— It doesn't feel cold at all. Instead it holds him there, or maybe that's really McCoy but Jim has a suspicion they're working in tandem, this wall and this doctor, and in a few more kisses he knows his cock is going to be a co-conspirator as well, starburst hot and pleading with him—

The groan doesn't even leave his throat, it just gutters out in happy fulfillment when McCoy undoes his pants with calm grey efficiency and takes him in hand. The kisses don't stop, either, the red bleeding into pinks and oranges and there's fire somewhere in the wetness as Jim bites and McCoy grunts.

Jim feels the air steam-colored between them, feels the hard thigh in between his and the hard cock against his hip, and he knows without asking where McCoy wants this wash of color to go. Where McCoy will take it, as long as Jim keeps holding the canvas.

Swiftly, it dials up shade after shade until the wall is holding the canvas that Jim is becoming from McCoy sweeping his artful tongue along jaw and ear and neck and working Jim's cock with his sinful, skillful hand— Kirk's hips start beating an uneven tattoo in response, one leg shifting out so McCoy is in between and quick as he can even think it, McCoy's hands are on his black-clad ass, pushing clothes down and off and lifting pale muscles up.

The wall and the doctor are there to catch him, the latter with a cradle of bone-white hips. Not bleached empty white like old bones but tinged with life, like bones made new.

McCoy looks at his eyes, then, after the stream of air and longing that just left Jim's lips, and Jim feels the bright sky blue of apology in that gaze. He shakes his head, kisses McCoy's grapefruit-flesh colored lips, then tucks two of his own fingers where his mouth just was. McCoy's tongue is warm and wet around them in an instant.

McCoy flushes with red after that, from his cheeks to his neck to the tip of his cock, as Kirk easily readies himself on his own hand. He wants to cover himself in McCoy in any way possible, wear a blanket of him if he could, so he considers this a great gift, and hopes he can give even a little of that back as he wets his palm and strokes McCoy's cock a few times.

McCoy tightens, his shoulders tighten but Jim just shakes his head again, slowly, almost lazily, and reconnects their mouths as he guides him in. It's tight, of course, and lightning flashes across his eyelids but then he forces them open and holds onto McCoy because lightning is part of nature, part of the cycle and with a wave of grass-green pleasure and the smell of ozone he's finally full, finally got McCoy just where he wants him.

A staccato groan weaves across his lips as red blooms dominant again in McCoy and he thrusts into Jim with urgency, power, a keen sort of desperation. Jim feels his back testing the wall's embrace but he doesn't care, he welcomes it with a hand on his own cock and with kisses, bites wherever he can reach, until the saffron bursts of pleasure become too much and his head sags, settles cheek to cheek with his mate's. Their base unworded utterances bleed into one another until all Kirk knows is Bones, the white bones and the olive eyes and the splintering heat of orgasm that explodes through them both, through his twitching limbs down to his protesting toes.

The wall takes their shuddering silently, soaking in the sounds like his shirt is soaking in his own fluids. He blinks at McCoy. At the soft smile on the doctor's face, the soft colors around him, the soft sounds he's not making but Kirk can hear anyways.

He kisses Kirk again, and it's lace-white, eggshell beige. It rolls around his mouth as McCoy lowers his feet to the ground, the wall accommodating, and keeps winding itself around them as Kirk sinks in and doesn't let go.

And Kirk knows that when he feels the purple stinging ache tomorrow as he takes his seat on the bridge, this is the color he will see, and the kiss that he will taste. He will think of olive, of carmine, of saffron, of walls' and hips' cradles. And he will think of pluck and melancholy, and he will know exactly which one he has chosen.

 **  
_FIN_   
**


End file.
